He has reached:
my strange destination, the Trappist monastery of Our Lady of the Snows.
There — vows of silence seeming somewhat elastic — he is not short of conversation. He has too much of it, of a propagandist nature. But I have my revelation.
Just as Richard Holmes tracing the steps of RLS, I find I am merely a follower.
I turn a page, and onto my recumbent body falls a flimsy scrap. It is one of those London Transport bus tickets, in the days when there were real conductors taking fares, when the tickets were issued from a kind of metal coffee grinder strapped to the conductor’s chest.
So: the problem.
If it were I who received this token from a distant past, what was I doing at stage 8 of route 7? No date to help. The number 7 still trundles down Oxford Street. It shuttles to and from Acton and the British Museum.
I cannot ever recall using a number 7.
A mystery? A forgotten event? Or — most likely — a previous reader of this book?